I was getting ready to unload this week on something that was really getting on my nerves. My goal was to launch a Pulitzer-Prize-worthy rant regarding the incessant killer bee buzzing of those insidious vuvuzela horns at the World Soccer Cup matches in South Africa.
First of all, just the name of those instruments sounds like an uncomfortable medical procedure rather than a cute nomenclature for mutant kazoos.
Second, their blat is worse than the latest Lady Ga Ga download and that means wicked bad.
Finally, they cause newly opened brews to go flat after just a few minutes of direct exposure to the din (Ga Ga tunes included). That fact alone amazes me that we aren't on a war footing with the country.
But before I got rolling on the column, nature stopped me in my tracks. Strange poop suddenly popped up in our yard.
So now I'm pondering if I should become a tourist entrepreneur and offer sightseeing to and around our domicile.
We have the usual things like a momma moose with twins who prune the flora around the cabin in the wee hours of the morning and late evening.
Then there's Ernie the Ermine and his little tribe of malcontent weaselettes that keep the area clean of rodents and are my wife's special heroes.
What is really nice is that, for some reason, his clan seems to get along with the couple of hen pheasants who herd their vast clutches of chicks through our newly cut grass while keeping an eye on the stud rooster who got them into their custody predicament with his lure of bluster and pimp plumage. The looks he receives are not friendly.
We used to have a thug raptor in the neighborhood. It had a nasty attitude and enjoyed targeting all of the newborns including our mini mutt Little Bear, but I haven't seen him lately.
It's rumored that it may have abruptly moved to Nome after some local Ninja-type snuck up to the base of the spruce it was chilling in and fired off a seal bomb below its perch. Observers claimed it shot out of that tree like an anti-aircraft missile and was last spotted northbound passing downtown Spenard.
To be truthful, I cannot attest to the accuracy of any of the aforementioned corrective behavioral intervention since I was in Washington, D.C., demanding the congressional ban of vuvuzelas sales in the United States in view of the fact that they could be used as weapons of mass destruction.
Moving right along.
We now have new additions to the neighborhood and they are leaping out of the pucker brush like lemmings at a cliff reunion. Bunnies, yep, cute little rabbits are now bouncing down our access road. Doesn't that sound all warm and fuzzy? What next, Bambi?
Not really, but I have found new bear scat and suspicious piles of mutt markers that resemble coyote biological graffiti. Predators follow the prey.
Now, what? It's simple. Grill, baby, grill!
Mature bunnies on the barbecue, smoked pheasant in the fall along with a side of an idiot bear's ribs that was properly convicted of committing nasties on our lawn.
It's a marinader's and baster's dream plus a cardiac episode for some of the more mentally bankrupt of P.E.T.A.'s brain trust.
Either way, I win and end up with a stimulus package for the freezer.
Nick can be reached at email@example.com if some government agency isn't trying to track him down for some spurious offense that allegedly occurred locally while he was somewhere in the world trying to convince Al Gore to lay off massages and not to exhale to save the planet from massive, hot air, carbon dioxide exhalations.
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